Deep in a Dark Wood
by ab extra
Summary: Addie Parker's new pointe instructor is certainly a... unique individual. Sherlock Holmes has to go undercover at the Bernier School of Dance, and what could go wrong when posing as a dance teacher? As it turns out, many things could go wrong, and everything Sherlock has worked so hard for might just come crashing down if he isn't careful... (Sherlock/OC)(Balletlock AU-ish)
1. A Good Looking Man

**_A/N_: Hi! It's me again! I was struck with inspiration a few weeks ago and this little thing just sort of... happened. Anyway, it hasn't been beta'd, so if you see a mistake, please point it out so I can go back and fix it. My knowledge of pointe and ballet is limited to my own experience, which is pretty okay because I'm currently at a dance college taking pointe anywayyy, soo... **

**Well, anyhoo, here's the fic, I hope you enjoy it. I should have the next chapter up soon!**

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><p><span>Chapter One: A Good Looking Man<span>

Addie Parker. Singer, dancer, exceptional babysitter, visionary. Well, maybe not visionary. And perhaps not exceptional babysitter, if we're not excluding that time when I was fifteen when I urgently needed milk so I took the two toddler-age children and the baby I was babysitting with me to the store. I got stopped on the way, and I, being fifteen, only had my permit, which was at the time sitting on my bedside table. That didn't go over well with the cop or the parents of the children. But, other than that, my babysitting record has been nearly perfect.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, checking myself out from the ground up. My legs are covered in white tights; my upper thighs obscured by a pink skirt. My black leotard clings to me in a comfortable way. My hair is pulled back, aside from those pesky strands that are too short to pull back into a bun. I grab my bag off the floor and smile at myself; I am the picture of perfect pointe.

Which is obviously only so important today out of all days because I want to make a good impression. Today we have a new teacher at the Bernier School of Dance. Our previous teacher, a stern and slightly scary Miss Lindana Ault (a very ballerina-esque name, isn't it?), was suddenly preoccupied with a death in the family that required her to move back home. This was, needless to say, extremely confusing to me, because she had on many occasions told me seemingly endless stories about her childhood here in London. Some of the girls in our class gossipped about it - I think at one point I heard a girl say she was almost sure Miss Lindana had accidentally murdered someone and needed to get out of the country, and fast - but I kept my mouth shut, despite my extensive confusion on the subject.

I slip on some flats and hurry into the kitchen, abruptly remembering that I can't stare at myself in the mirror all day. I'll start nitpicking if I keep looking at myself, and then I'll be standing there for ages. I down the half-glass of orange juice still sitting on the counter and rush outside, pulling on my coat on the way downstairs.

My apartment, thank God, is only a few blocks away from school. It's pretty much inhabited solely by other Bernier students. I'm pretty sure that's why it was built in the first place, as a housing unit for the Bernier kids so they wouldn't be late to their first class every day. Whatever the reason may be, I hurry down the old, creaky stairs and out the front door, frowning as the wind blows my stray hairs into my eyes. I keep my head down as I start down the sidewalk, hoping my bun will survive the short walk.

I wave to Greta as I pass the coffee shop - she's a barista there. Which, by the way, cracks me up. The coffee shop, a place mostly staffed by 20-25 year olds, was certainly not where you would expect to see a seventy-something year old woman serving up cappuccino. And slowly, too. It takes her near a half an hour just to get somebody their morning fix. But I'm pretty sure the owner's too scared to fire her, so Greta still has her job. And probably will until she dies, an event which can't be too far away.

The lobby downstairs is cold when I enter. I'm surprised- usually it's like a furnace in here. Alas, it's even chillier in here than it was outside, so I'm left to shiver in my thin leotard as I head upstairs to my class. Our room is on the third floor, as are half of the dance studios. The first floor is devoted entirely to big stages and auditoriums for the shows. I usually get a mediocre part in said shows, because, according to three or four of my classmates, I myself am mediocre. Be that as it may, it's always me that gets stuck with the shitty parts. Lindana used to say if I would practice more and perhaps be a little more outgoing, I would get the parts that I wanted. It's not like I wanted the leads, or anything, but something with more than a few minutes of stage time would be great.

As I pass the second floor, I listen as closely as I can to make out the lyrics of the showtunes playing down the hall. I don't succeed, but before I can get too frustrated with that endeavor, I hear some girls behind me. I steel myself for one of my many weaknesses: contact with another human being.

"Oh, Addie! Hey!" I plaster a smile on my face as I turn around to greet the two girls.

I almost sigh in resignation when I see who it is. Belle Bailey and Alice Livington. They're not in my class, so luckily I don't have to deal with them every day. Every once in a while, though, they catch up to me before class, or after, or while I'm on break, and annoy the living daylights out of me. Most of the time, they're just plain rude, making remarks that they have no right to even make, or criticizing my dance outfits (who even does that? I'm wearing this to dance, okay, there's no reason to look like a goddess). They're the type of girls who are stuck in high school; still mean, still stupid, and still competitive as hell.

I clear my throat. "Hi, Belle, Alice."

Belle, blonde and about about a foot taller than ginger-headed Alice, smirks as she says, "Heard you've got a new teacher. You think this one'll like you?"

I can tell by the way she's saying it that there's no real harm in the blunt question. It's still rude, though.

"I'm not sure," I reply, turning to trudge up the last of the stairs. Belle and Alice fall into step with me. "We haven't found out who the new teacher is yet. Today's the first time we get to meet her."

"Well, it looks like you've dressed for success," Alice says. "If you do your best, maybe this one will actually recommend you for a good part in this year's show." I'm about to get angry when I look over and realize that she's not saying this to be mean; she really means it.

I nod, trying to force a smile. "Thanks for the advice." I nod to the doorway into the dance room. "Well… see you guys later."

"Bye," they say in unison as they head off to their class.

I turn to open the door to my class and jump when it is opened for me. Three girls- Jessica, Kristen, and Sam- are poking their heads out of the doorway. "Finally! Addie, you'll never believe the new teacher," Jessica says. Jessica likes to think of herself as my best friend, a position that is currently taken by one Stephanie Ashworth. Anyway, I'm content to let Jessica think that she's my best friend, as long as she doesn't try to spend the night or anything.

Jessica paws at my arm, trying to pull me into the classroom. "Why won't I believe it?" I ask, wondering what's so different about this teacher.

Sam grabs my shoulder and pulls me down to her height. In my ear, she whispers (not very quietly and with a great deal of spittle) "He's a guy!"

I stand up straight again and make it look like I'm brushing my hair back as I wipe the Sam-spit off of my ear. "So? Lots of dance teachers are guys." I push the door open and start to step in, with Sam, Jessica, and Kristen all flocking around me. "I mean, yeah, it's a little odd that he's teaching an all girls class, but it happens." I go to the bench to drop off my bag and pull out my empty water bottle, heading to the double-spouted fountain to fill it up.

"But seriously," Sam says, quieter now that we're in the classroom. "When he comes in just look at him and you'll get why we're all so freaked about it."

"I should hope so," I reply. "Or you guys would be getting all worked up over nothing." I take a swig from my water bottle and set it down next to my bag. Sitting down on the bench, I pull out my pointe shoes and start putting them on. Kristen and Jessica sit down next to me, and Sam sits down on the floor by my feet.

"So, did you guys have a good weekend? I heard you went out for Kristen's birthday." I was hoping to start up a meaningless conversation that would carry us on until class started.

"Oh, yeah, about that," Jessica started, sounding apprehensive. "We were gonna invite you, but I know you don't really like outings like that, so… sorry…"

"It's okay," I reply easily. And it is. I wouldn't have had fun anyway. "Happy birthday," I say to Kristen."

"Thanks," she utters, giving me a smile. I return it as I finish tightening the ribbons on my shoes.

"Oh my god, there he is," Sam says, smacking my leg repeatedly.

I shake her hand off. "Ow," I say pointedly, glaring at her.

"Look at him!" She looks almost distressed. I roll my eyes, smiling at how flustered she is.

The smile falls off my face when I catch sight of the new teacher. He's tall, six feet or taller, and thin, and his head is covered in a well-tamed mop of dark curls. His eyes are a color I can't make out from this side of the huge dance studio, and his physique is… marvelous. His black dance pants don't leave much to the imagination, and his white tee shirt is practically transparent.

"Oh my god," I say involuntarily.

Kristen makes a noise in the back of her throat and grimaces. "I don't like him at all, Sammy. He's all… weird looking."

"Says you," Sam murmurs quietly. Jessica is about to say something, but before she can, the new teacher is striding purposefully up to the front of the class, clapping his hands on the way.

"Quiet please," he says. "Gather up here, girls." He pulls one of the chairs from the few sitting by the door nearer to the middle and sits down. Most of the class has already gracefully fallen down at his feet, but a few, including our little group, wander over when he asks for us. We sit down near the back of the group and tuck our feet under us. The new teacher clears his throat and grins.

"Well. Hello, class. I'm the new teacher. I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. You may call me Sherlock, Mr. Holmes, Sir… one thing you may not call me is Sherly." A few girls giggled and his lips quirked up again. "Anyway… yeah, that's it I think."

"Welcome to Bernier, Mr. Holmes," said a girl at the front. Mr. Holmes glanced down and winked at her. She giggled ridiculously.

"Thank you, Miss…"

"Morwood. Arabella Morwood."

"Thank you, Miss Morwood." He looked up again, clapped his hands decisively. "So! I understand that your previous teacher was in the middle of choosing a show for this year." There are murmurs of agreement, and he continues, "She didn't leave me with any requests for that, so I'm thinking something by Tchaikovsky, yes?"

The murmurs are louder this time. Jessica leans over and asks, "D'you think we'll get to do _The Sleeping Beauty_? I've always wanted to do that one."

"Quiet please," Mr. Holmes said again. He stood up and went to the back of the room, where an almost completely clear desk sat. "Miss Ault informed me that you girls usually do your own thing for the first ten minutes or so of class. After that we'll organize- half of you over here," he points to the space we currently occupy, "And half of you over there," he gestures to the adjoining room separated by a half wall. "I'm going to do a quick skill assessment, nothing to get worked up about, just trying to see how I'm going to pick up where Miss Ault left off. After that we'll take a break and then you can vote on a new routine. Sound good?"

Muttered approvals litter the air as we all stand up and start stretching. Sam and I head to the adjoining room and immediately go to the barre. Sam hoists her leg up and I follow suit, trying to take my mind off the new teacher. He's something else, that's for sure. Something about the way that he walks, the way that he holds himself- it's pretty obvious that he's not here to dance. No, he's here for a purpose… And I'm trying to figure out what exactly that purpose is when Sam snaps her fingers in my face.

"Hello?"

I shake my head. "Sorry," I mutter. "I was thinking. What was that?"

"Port de bras! Come on, Addie!" I roll my eyes. As she continues. "Fifth en bas… to first… to second… and back to fifth en bas…"

"Samantha Chadwick?"

Sam visibly jumps. "Just Sam, please," she says, smiling nervously at a space behind my head.

"Alright, Sam…" He says good-naturedly. I turn around and he's holding a pen and a clipboard, looking at Sam expectantly. "Well, Miss Chadwick, show me what you've got."

Sam gets through the little exam easily. Mr. Holmes nods a lot and scribbles things on his clipboard. I pretend to exercise at the barre the whole time. When Sam's finished, he looks at me pointedly.

"What's your name?"

"Addie Parker." He nods and flips to another sheet on the clipboard, running his eyes up and down it. "Ah, here we are. Parker, Adelaide. Would you like to go next?"

I shrug. "May as well," I say, throwing him a smile so I don't seem rude. He reciprocates it, although his is more of just a pull of the lips, just him doing it to placate me. I move to stand about six feet away from him.

"Oh-kay… Plié… Good… Arabesque…" He makes a surprised noise of approval after I finish the move. "Pirouette… Very good… Assemblé." I'm surprised, considering the moves he'd asked me to do before, but I comply. "Lovely. Fouetté en tournant?"

I do three, partly because I find it a bit hard to stop and keep my grace. When I do, he nods, smiling at his clipboard. "That's all, Adelaide, thank you."

I nod, smiling at him as he walks away. "Your fouettés en tournant are great," Sam says from beside me.

"Yours are better," I say.

"Psh. Yeah right. He didn't even ask me to do one."

"Well, he looks like he's asking everyone to do different things, so…"

By the time Mr. Holmes finishes testing everyone, it's too late to do much else, so he tells us we'll decide on a new routine tomorrow. We all go pack up our things and change. I take off my toe shoes and put them back in my bag, flexing my feet and sighing. Sam and Jessica leave immediately after Mr. Holmes dismisses us, but Kristen and I stay behind. I have to wait for Stephanie, who takes classes upstairs in costume design, and Kristen still has things to pack up. I go to the bathroom, but when I come back, Kristen has already left.

I decide to go down to the lobby to wait for Stephanie instead of waiting for her to come here, to studio 3C, like she usually does. I pick up my bag and head back out into the main studio, pushing my stray hairs away from my face. I catch sight of Mr. Holmes sitting at his desk. His feet are propped up on a pulled-out drawer and his laptop is sitting on his thighs. I don't think he sees me.

I clear my throat. "Uh, Mr. Holmes?" He looks up at me, a surprised expression flitting across his face.

"Oh, hello," he smiles. He frowns. "Miss…" he pauses, and I think he's trying to remember my name. "Parker?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please, Miss Parker, call me Sherlock, or something… Mr. Holmes sounds too…" He waves his hands around awkwardly. The amount of secondhand embarrassment I'm feeling is astounding. "Formal," he finishes.

"I thought you said-"

"Yes, well, I was lying. Anyway, what did you want?"

I look at the ceiling, biting my tongue. "Uh, just wanted to know when you think we'll know what the show is for this year."

He nods. "The other instructors and I are having a meeting tonight to discuss, and another tomorrow night to decide. The earliest you'll know is Wednesday morning."

"Thank you, Mr.- um, sir."

He nods and goes back to his laptop. I take one last look at him as I let the door to studio 3C swing closed.

"There you are!"

I jump, dropping my book and uttering a small, "Oh my God," when Stephanie surprises me in the lobby. She laughs, picking up my book for my and ushering me out of the double doors at the front of the building.

"Christ, Steph, don't scare me like that."

"It's not my fault you're so jumpy," she giggles, skipping ahead of me. "Look what I did to my shirt today." She pulls her coat aside to reveal a giant blue stain on her tee shirt.

"Oh my God," I blurt. "What happened?"

"I was dying a skirt today and it spilled," she says, beaming. "Good thing I didn't wear a nice shirt today, right?"

"Very right, yeah," I laugh. "Are you busy tonight?"

"Not really. You wanna get something to eat?"

"Yeah," I answer. "I've got to go change first, though."

She nods. "Hey, did you get a new teacher?"

"Yeah, you didn't hear?"

"No. But hey, I'd call you lucky. He is a good looking man." She waggles her eyebrows at me.

"You think every man is good looking," I quip.

But she's not wrong, really…

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><p><em>Don't forget to review! -Blake<em>


	2. ET the Movie, Genius

Sherlock sighs as the students begin filing in. First it's only a few; two, three, four girls. Then more and more come in, until all twenty-two of them are present. He's surprised to see the one that's sick- Addie something. She's been sick since Tuesday, but she still came in to class every day. A bit inconsiderate, if he's telling the truth. What if she gets all her classmates sick? Still, he has to admire her dedication. And the fact that despite her rather obvious headache, her dancing is fantastic.

Sherlock has been a dancer for a long time. When he was eight years old, his aunt brought a DVD copy of the Nutcracker to Christmas dinner, and that was that. He watched it on repeat the whole day, and when she left, she let him keep it. It was the only thing that could hold his interest, at the moment, and the board game she'd gotten him for his Christmas gift seemed a bit inadequate. So Sherlock had kept the DVD and watched it over and over, alone in his room. He attempted to replicate every one of the Prince's moves.

He begged for dance lessons. His mother happily obliged, and his hobby took off from there. He hadn't stopped dancing until his second year of college, when the time for dancing was simply unavailable, what with the studying and tutoring and avoiding people he had to do. And after that, the old hobby had died, and he'd moved on to greater things.

It came in handy on this case, though. He'd thanked whatever counterfeit deity people were worshipping these days for his years of dance classes- without them, his undercover work on this case would be impossible. He was to infiltrate the Bernier School of Dance in order to keep a close eye on a Mrs. Jacqueline Overton. Sherlock had suspected for a long time that Mrs. Overton was one of the heads of a notorious crime syndicate that had been plaguing London and the surrounding area for a few years now. To most, they were known simply as Generation Incorporated. Taking them down would be one of Sherlock's most satisfying cases in a long time.

That's why he's here now, glaring at Addie Something-Or-Other from across the room. How dare she bring her sickness to his dance studio, and jeopardize his performance in solving this case. It's common sense. You're sick, you don't come to class. Or leave the house. You quarantine yourself. Unless, of course, you are Sherlock, and you have better things to do than sit around at home being sick.

She emerges from the little locker room wearing her toe shoes and with her hair tied back. Without it hanging in her face, the bags under her eyes and redness around her nose are all the more apparent. Three girls are flocking around her, stroking her arms and asking her if she's feeling better. Foolish. They're only going to get sick, being so close to her. She smiles and nods. Sherlock's fingers tense over his keyboard.

He doesn't like her. She always puts her best foot forward, always smiles through anything he throws at her- and in the last two days, he's thrown quite a bit. Worst of all, though, is that she's a beautiful dancer. Every step is perfectly executed, and if it's not, it's repeated until it is. She doesn't complain when he pushes at her to do more, only gets angry when she can't do it. And then she works until she can. To say the truth, she reminds him of himself.

Did he already say the worst part? Perhaps he did, but there's another section of the worst part. Call it Worst Part: Section B. The worst worst part is this: She's going to be Odette. She has to be. The other nine teachers have already decided. Even if he were to vote no on it, the majority rules. Seven of the teachers have already said that they'd like her to be Odette. He had no choice but to agree.

That is, she will be Odette if she agrees to do it. Perhaps he can make it seem like a burden and draw her away from it. He wouldn't be so concerned if it weren't for the fact that the other teachers had asked him to be Prince Siegfried. He honestly didn't want to be around Addie Something-Or-Other if she was going to be snot-filled and coughing in the same room as him, let alone in shared dance space.

He is to ask her after class. He has until then to think of as many ways as possible to make the role of Odette seem as unappealing as Miss Addie Whatever, blowing her nose in the corner and coughing violently.

It's time to tell Addie.

The other girls all file out. Addie, surprisingly, is one of the first to leave- er, attempt to leave. Sherlock gently grasps her arm and asks her to stay behind. Her face is immediately shrouded in worry, but she nods and sits down in one of the chairs near his desk. He watches as her friends give her questioning looks. She just smiles and waves goodbye. It's a good ten minutes before everyone leaves, and then it's finally time to talk.

He clears his throat and she jumps, putting a scrap of paper in her book to mark the page. She smiles at him as she stuffs it in her bag. "Did I do something wrong, sir?"

He gives her a dreadfully fake smile. "No, not at all. I was actually going to talk to you about Swan Lake." He goes to his desk and pulls himself up so he's sitting on it with one leg tucked under the knee of the other.

She's watching him from her seat four or five feet away from him, eyes wide and waiting. He prepares himself to make Odette sound like hell. "The other teachers want you to be Odette."

She looks quite surprised. Taken aback, it's a few moments before she says anything. "... And… you don't want me to?"

He sighs. "No, that's not it," he says, only because being rude won't help him. "It's just that Odette is a trying role. You're going to need to spend countless hours here practicing. I'm sure you have a job and other things to do outside of class."

She fidgets in her seat, drums her nails on her knee. It's easy to see that she doesn't do much outside of class, after all. She looks down for a few minutes, then up again, sweeping her stray hairs behind her right ear. "Who's going to play Odette if I don't want to? Just asking."

He shifts, thinking he's almost won. "Belle Bailey, most likely."

The change in her body language is instantaneous. Her shoulders square ever so slightly and she looks… almost angry. "I guess I'll do it," she says slowly.

He resists the urge to groan. "Yes, alright then. Well, you'll need to start coming in for practices Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and weekends."

She nods. "Okay, then." She stands up, brushes the back of her skirt off and picks up her bag. "Practices start this week or next week?"

"Tomorrow," He says. He watches her leave and sighs in relief when she's finally gone.

"So did you say yes, or not?"

I turn off the timer on the oven and take the finished cookies out. "Yeah. I couldn't just say no and let Belle get the part. Not after what she and Alice said to me earlier. And there's the fact that she gets the lead, or at least a really prominent role, in every show we do."

"Oh, well we can't let that happen," Stephanie says sarcastically. "It'd be like the end of the world." She carefully peels a cookie off of the hot cookie sheet and picks off a piece, throwing it in her mouth.

"It's just that… this is my chance to prove myself, y'know? Show them what I'm made of."

"I understand. Are you gonna be working with the new teacher?" She waggles her eyebrows at me and I groan.

"He's Prince Siegfried."

She almost spits out the half of the cookie that she just stuffed in her mouth. "Oh my god, are you serious? That's great," she laughs. "I need to come with you to practices and bring my camera, that's gonna be gold."

"I told you he doesn't like me!" I say as I sit a can of soda in front of her. "I'm worried. What if he yells a lot?"

"He's not gonna yell, calm down. He'll only yell if you're being difficult. Or if you guys get into some… compromising situations…" Another eyebrow wiggle.

"Stop that. I really am nervous about this. He doesn't seem to be the most patient guy in the world. He seemed really upset that I came to class while I was sick. He said I was 'putting the entire class in danger of contracting whatever found its way into my immune system.'"

"Maybe he was just in a bad mood," Stephanie says optimistically. She gets up and leads the way to the living room. "Keep your chin up. If he yells at you, just act like it doesn't phase you. Or just yell back at him. Don't let him think he can get away with it."

"I'll start crying. That's what happens when people yell at me, remember?" I sit down next to her on the couch.

"Oh yeah. I never understood that." She sips at her soda. "You're not a crying person… that must be embarrassing."

I nod. "Very. I just hope he's more understanding than I'm picturing him…"

"Don't worry, he will be. Don't make yourself sick over it. Relax."

"No, no, no! Stop, just stop!"

Sherlock closes his eyes as he yells at me. Yes, he told me to call him Sherlock. He goes to his laptop and yanks the little speakers out of the plug-in, practically slamming his laptop shut. "God, you can't even do your fouettés en tournant correctly!"

I almost stomp my foot. He's been screeching and yelling at me every few seconds for the past two hours since class ended. He corrects everything- even the things I'm doing perfectly! I'm about to just give up. "I_ can_ do them right, but you keep _yelling_ at me before I can get one _done_!"

"I'm only yelling at you because you're doing them wrong!"

"What is it that I'm doing wrong, then? Just tell me! I can't fix it if I don't know what's wrong!"

He doesn't answer me, just violently plops down in his desk chair and crosses his arms. I stare at him for a moment. Instead of working, he's going to sit there and_ sulk_ because of something that's his own fault?

"Ugh!" His head snaps up and he looks at me curiously. I turn on my heel and walk into the locker room, going to my bag and stuffing my head in. I scream, the sound muffled by my clothes. Sitting up, I knock my bag to the floor, spilling its contents. A stick of deodorant rolls in front of me and I angrily kick it out of my sight. After a few moments of silence, I kneel on the floor and start to pick up my things.

I'm halfway through putting on my tee shirt when I stop. I could finish changing. I could let Belle take the part, or I could find someone else to practice with. But that would be giving up. I have a feeling that's exactly what Sherlock wants me to do. I stand there, letting my shirt fall to the ground, and put my hands on my hips. I'm not going to let him think I'm weak. If I have to deal with him until the show, I'll do it, and I'll do it with a bitchy smile.

"What are you doing?"

I jump, whirling around and slipping on my fallen shirt. I catch myself on the bench and pull myself back up. He's staring at me and I'm very glad I wore a sports bra today. I reach down to grab my dance shirt out of my bag and pull it over my head, then stand up and walk past him, back out into the studio.

I go immediately to the barre and start stretching again. I'm not sure if he followed me in until he asks again, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like, genius? I'm stretching."

Silence. Then, "I thought you were angry."

"I was. I am. Let's get to work."

He's completely still for a moment or two, then he goes back to his desk and plugs in the speakers again. Tchaikovsky's "Waltz of the Flowers" filters out of them. And a moment later he's standing in front of me as I continue to stretch my left leg. He waits patiently until I take my leg off the barre and look at him. His right hand finds a place on my waist and he tugs me closer to him, lifting his left hand to grasp mine.

"What are we doing?"

"The waltz. You need to work on dancing with a partner." He pulled me a bit closer and we moved away from the barre, starting the first box. "One, two, three, one, two, three…" Sherlock hummed.

"I can waltz, genius. I've done it before."

He stops, and we continue dancing, not speaking. I'm still angry. At least I can use my anger for something. I'll make sure I'm the best Odette Bernier has seen in a long time.

"Loosen up," Sherlock says. "You're too tense."

"I wouldn't be so tense if you hadn't yelled at me," I say shortly.

He sighs, lets his head fall back. "Get over it. It's not my fault you-"

"Shut up. I'm trying to waltz."

So we fall into silence again. It's no more comfortable than the last. Sherlock's movements start getting stiff. "Are you going to apologize?"

"If it will make you feel better," he says blandly.

"It will."

He doesn't answer for a long time. That's why it surprises me when the music ends and me mumbles, "Sorry."

I blink. "You're forgiven. Just try to be more patient with me."

He nods. "Think I can do that." The music shifts slowly into La Gazza Ladra. Sherlock drifts away to go change it to something suitable to dance to. A song that I don't know floats into the empty space of the studio and Sherlock comes over, awkwardly placing his hand on my waist again. I'm still trying to recognize the song and he tries to drag me closer to him. I snap back to the present and we start our first box.

"The Blue Danube Waltz." Sherlock must have noticed that I didn't know the song.

"Thanks," I reply. "I thought I remembered this one… Johann Strauss?"

"Johann Strauss II," he corrects. I nod. We dance.

"Can you show me some of your moves?"

He pauses. It's 9:30 on Saturday morning. Her second day of practice. Her eyes look brutally earnest, wide like a child's. He sighs, deciding she's not just asking to bother him. Taking a deep breath, he pulls away and watches as she drifts over to the barre to watch him.

He executes a perfect à la seconde turn and she whistles. He grins at the praise and does a couple of pirouettes; an assemblé and a high arabesque. He discreetly looks at her as he finishes the arabesque. She's looking at him with hooded eyes and her head is held low, her arms crossed under her breasts as she leans against the barre. Sherlock is no fool; he knows what she wants in that moment, and for a second he's thinking about offering it, but he knows he shouldn't. He knows she doesn't want him, she wants Sherlock Holmes the lanky dance teacher that wears too-tight pants to class and gets too upset with his students when he asks them to do things they can't even do. She doesn't want him. She wants the clinging black spandex on Mr. Holmes's ass as he walks back to his desk to change the music.

They practice for a couple more hours before she asks for a break. He gladly gives her one. He's feeling cramped, and pressed in, like he does sometimes when he's been out and about for too long. This is why he prefers to be alone, and the fact that he just gets irritated with most people. Adelaide is not irritating (well, not much) but she isn't John. John is virtually the only person, perhaps aside from his father (and that's only on certain occasions) that he can be around and not feel suffocated. Adelaide is no different than everyone else. She is suffocating him, and he needs a few minutes alone to get himself together so he doesn't blow a gasket, or something.

When she comes back, her hair is down again. It's fairly long, reaching just below her shoulders. The color is something indescribable, a mixture of the generic hair colors that everyone talks about, but then, a lot of people's hair is like that. Hers is on the lighter side, with darker streaks in it under it. He sniffed it earlier. He doesn't think it's dyed.

He's busy looking at her hair, so he doesn't notice that she's sniffling until she wipes her eye. She starts to put her hair back up, and Sherlock reaches out to her. What he was planning on doing, he's not sure. But she sees, and she gives him a funny look. To explain, he asks, "What's wrong?"

She giggles. His confusion only grows. It makes her giggle more. "I just started thinking…" She gets frustrated trying to pull her hair into a bun, and her focus shifts from him for a moment, trying to get her hair back into place. He beckons for her to come over, and it's her turn to be confused. The raised platform on this side of the room is what serves as his "office." It's where he hangs his coat and where his desk and three chairs sit. There are two large windows over here, too. He stands on the raised part and turns her so she's facing away from him. With her standing on the dance floor and not up here, he's like a giant in the mirror. He untangles her fingers from her hair and flicks them down to her sides, where they swing as he starts on her bun. "About what?"

"Hm?" She's distracted, he can tell, by the way they look in the mirror, but she soon continues. "Oh. Yeah. I started thinking… about_ E.T._"

He's silent for a moment. "Hair tie," is the next thing he says, and she raises her right arm and lets him take one from her wrist. "_E.T._ the movie?"

"Duh, genius," she says, but she's smiling. "I watched it last night and it made me all sad. Maybe 'cause it reminds me of my brother. I don't even have a reason to be sad about him anyway. It's all stupid."

He simply nods, to let her know he heard her. She gives him the other hair tie when he asks for it. He pats her shoulder when he's done with her bun, and then they practice until it's dark outside.


End file.
